"Will you not help me?" she said. "We must work together."
For a moment Mary had made the other feel what she felt herself—that Paul's life was really in danger—but only for a moment.
"No, no," she cried. "They'll never hang him when they know what I know!"
"What do you know? Tell me," cried Mary, feeling that she was nearing the object after which she strove.
"Yes, you must know. The truth must come out. After last night it cannot be hidden long."
"My father, as you know, is the judge," said Mary. "And he must do his duty. It's not he who's responsible; it is the jury, you know."
There was something unreal in her words, and they seemed to pass her lips without any effort on her own part. Paul's mother almost laughed.
"Why is it I feel so tender towards you?" she said, "when you are his child? I expect it is because I know that Paul loves you and that you love him. I ought to hate you. I can't understand why I don't. And then everything is so tangled too."
Mary was sure now that she was talking to a mad woman. Her words were meaningless. They were simply the ravings of a disordered mind.
"Can a man condemn his own son to death?" continued the older woman. "Now that he knows the truth, can he send him to be hanged?"